THE SCIENCE OF EVIL!
by Spawn Guy
Summary: In this issue: Earth's Mightiest Psychopaths, our first line of defence. Great to be alive, ain't it True Believers?
1. Playtime With Norman

"You know, once upon a time this would have been so ridiculously satisfying I'd have never needed a woman again."

Spider-Man's flesh formed molten lava patterns before his entire face and chest burst into flames. The Scarlet Spider charged forward and got his head ripped off.

"Now I find myself waking up at night and wondering 'Why green _and_ purple?'"

Symbiote Spider-Man had his skull pounded straight down through his rib cage in one blow. Kaine was drowned face fist in the molten slag that had been Ben Riley.

"Can you imagine?"

The Iron Spider sagged like a gaudy sack of beef after a perfect repulseor blast through the forehead. His waldo arms were used to impale the 56th and 57th Spider-Man, the 49th Symbiote Spider-Man and the 33rd Ben Reilly. All straight through the face.

Norman Osborn grunted like a howitzer tank, tossing the insane chandelier of corpses down the mountain of mostly dismembered, entirely decapitated Spider-Men.

Then spun to drive his gauntleted fist into the face of the latest lunging Spider-Man. He leapt after it as it tumbled down, knocking the occasional arm or leg free of the shadows. They crashed into the ground with a roar like the Manhattan Project, Osborn pounding on the arachnid's face again and again and again and again and again--

The simulator chimed, that high pitched dying bird sound that engineers _know_ will make people get up when they don't want to. Osborn tore the gauntlets, managed and useless, from his hands and tossed them to the floor.

"Something's missing. I don't know what, but I think you took it from me."

He scowled, desperately missing the feeling of a latex mask and purple body armour.

"I can never forgive you for that. And I don't even know what it is."

Ten minutes later he was outside the simulator room, dabbing at his forehead with a towel, sweats as damp and stinking as a New York sewer in summer. His knuckles were torn open and flaking, red and brown splashed with yellow and green. He rolled and squashed something between his fingers with his other hand.

"Victoria, take a note."

"Sir?"

"It's the smell."

Osborn crushed the grey ball of LMD flesh between thumb and forefinger for the thousandth time.

"You can't simulate the smell of burning flesh. Not really."

He tossed the pulp into an automated trash can, which instantly incinerated it, and slumped out of the room. Then hesitated. When he turned around he was smiling. It wasn't a Goblin smile, but that just made it worse.

"And tell Gargan I've beaten his personal record. Seven hundred spiders in under half an hour."


	2. Table Manners With Daken

_Be back in time for dinner. _Osborn said.

Yeah. Right. Like Daken would be stupid enough to eat anything from Norman Osborn's table.

"You okay back there?"

"Ask me that again and you'll wish I was using the claws on you."

The geek at the computer holds up his chubby hands that smell like too much pizza.

"Just trying to be hospitable, man."

"No your not." the faux Wolverine says.

"No I'm not." the geek, Hacker or Slacker or something retarded like that, admits. "But you came wanting me to crack the stuff on this jump drive an' I told you it could take awhile. Maybe you're not bored, but since all I gotta do is work this thing over, ask you if you want anything to eat and what's in the friggin' bag, I sure as hell am."

"Get it done." Draken snarls, hating how much he sounds like his father, and unconsciously patting the top of the friggin' bag. He is bored and to prowl the edges of this cage would be to admit it's a cage, so he just stares out the grimy Tha Ville window and watch the sun set, wondering what the old man's doing.

Probably the same damn thing in San Fran. He hates that to.

He asked for this though.

Really.

_I want the intel mission._

_Why?_

_You have anything else for me to do today?_

_No._

_Then I'm taking the intel mission._

A smile.

_Be back in time for dinner._

The things you do for a Muramasa blade.

When he condescended to work _with _H.A.M.M.E.R he thought he was joining a pack of hunters. Couldn't have been further from the truth.

Venom and Osborn think about Spider-Man far too damn much. The Moonstone woman is ridiculously self centred about her brain and her ass respectively. He feels equal parts pity and contempt for the Sentry: the worst part of having more power than whoever's holding your leash is not knowing it. Bullseye's no artist. Ares is pure legend in a fight but then Daken will be damned if he lets that crack about his mother go. He's still trying to asses Noh-Vah, but the idea of someone on the same team being an equal, maybe _more_, of a threat has a certain appeal.

Osborn…Osborn's a low rent Romulus. He's a scavenger feeding of Stark's bad PR and a paper trail of Skrull bodies. And that's not what Daken needs. Powers nice and all, but he needs more than that. There's power and then ,there's the hunt. He needs a hunt. It's the animal in him. But the Iron Patriot's good little toy soldiers can't be seen on a hunt. Not a _real _one. Oh no.

There's the hunt and then there's…well. That's why he took an intel mission.

So he sits in this hovel watching the geek work on whatever the hell is in those encrypted files on the jump drive, and he waits.

It's about 11:30 when Maker dose a victory dance. While sitting down. Daken's impressed. About an hour ahead of schedule.

"Yes! The monarch of the megabyte does it again!" He removes the drive and tosses it back. Daken snatches it out of the air, coming up behind him. "Everything in there should be open for you, man. Hell of a lot of trouble to go to find an address, but what you superheroes do with each other's secret headquarters is your own business."

His pockmarked, goatee infested, multiple chinned expression softens like a pound of lard experiencing an avalanche.

"So that's it, yeah? Our deal? I know you can't go all public about it 'cause this is national security but you'll make that stupid thing I did in college for A.I.M go away right? I can get an actual job and have a real conversation with my mom again?"

Daken pauses in the middle of pulling out the bag's friggin' contents and looks the geek right in the eye.

"Don't be stupid Becker. This is an intel mission. You just don't leave evidence for this kind of thing. Scorching earth is only the start."

Prey makes all kinds of faces. The bug on hell's windshield look isn't exactly the same as the slow, hopeless collapse of someone realising they've just been impaled from the shadows, but it'll do.

"Your old fraternity brothers from A.I.M planted enough evidence for you being found with this to make perfect sense."

He tosses the contents of the bag into the dork's lap. The moron scrambles with it like it's trying to sting him or something. He freezes once he gets a good look at it, spread eagled across his chest like a satisfied lover.

It's the hood and robes of the Klan. In exactly his size. With enough DNA traces to convince God himself.

And that's when Daken stabs him in the neck.

He watches the body for a while.

"Thanks for the help."

Pretty clean but it leaves a hell of a mess after a while. All over the robes, the chair, the desk. Of course there's the shape of the wounds and the fact the drive replaced every wiped file with plenty of incriminating links and photos, but throw racism into the mix and no one wants to look _too_ closely. Not in Norman Osborn's world.

Daken slips the drive into the bag and changes into the nondescript Denim stuff Victoria Hand picked out for him before heading out the window. There's a Texas themed place a couple of blocks away and he's in the mood for a good stake. One that probably won't have poison in it. Probably.

He's sitting there half an hour later looking at the drive when the squad cars scream past. He doesn't bothering looking at them. He's better than that. Still. Hell of a lot of trouble to go through for an address. Then again, maybe address equals something that isn't an intel mission. God knows he could use it.

There's the hunt. And then there's playing with your food.


	3. Politics With Karla

Reynolds scares the fucking daylights out of Karla. It's just that little bit harder to enjoy your luxury penthouse when there's a human nuclear bomb sleeping ten floors up.

"Do you want to get anything to eat?"

"No thank you, Bob."

"I don't either. I was just asking."

"Thank you, Bob."

"Mr Osborn says I should eat more. I don't need to but I should. He's right."

"That's very nice, Bob."

The only reason she's up here, hovering with him over the financial district, is because something's up with Osborn. Several something's are up with Norman Osborn at any given time, but even before they set out on this little witch hunt or whatever this is he's been…listless. The man who would rule the world should not be listless.

This is dangerous not only for him, but very much for her.

Assuming control of the group would mean she'd be locked up in the same asylum as a bunch of macho power houses who were socially, religiously, politically, domestically and, God forbid, sexually disenfranchised and psychotic _before_ the super powers. She knows whereof she speaks.

Super human psychiatry is more of a rabbit warren than every sub field you learn about in an entire year at Pennsylvania. It's one thing to have a superego, quite another to have the abilities to _indulge it _and the recourses to _get away with it_. It's scary how much the average metahuman is basically any regular disordered human being but with bigger explosions. If not for the threat of radiation poisoning a savvy enough doctor could have made a billon over night long ago.

To be in charge of this little cabal of titanic hedonists would be like driving a taker truck at full speed along a narrow mountain road in the rain with no brakes. Or at least require no sleep. Forever. No thank you. She like almost nothing better (because you just can't beat good chocolate) than Osborn exposed, stripped of his rank and hurled into the Vault But then she'd be the bus driver. Assuming nobody tried to kill then and there.

Jesus. H _Christ_, is she starving.

"Bob?"

"Yes?"

"There's this little place in France…"

"I don't speak French…"

"Forget it then."

"I could learn…"

"It's really no problem, Bob."

Crap.

Staying in control of people like the Sentry is ridiculously easy. Like squashing a bug.

People like Bullseye? Not so much. You'd need the mind of a psychopath to hold onto the reins of a horde of psychopath, especially when half of them are dedicated to revenge against someone or other. Maybe that's why they all crowded around Osborn so easily, the lengths he's gone too (or _says_ he's gone too) to get back at Spider-Man…but that's expected.

Going over his personal history, in secret of course, his dead wife, his resurrected son, the daughter in law with the grandchild he barley knows…the arachnid is the last actual human relationship he has with anybody. The expected, if not professional thing to do would be dedicating H.A.M.M.E.R's not inconsiderable recourses to a 2nd Spider Hunt that would make Stalinist Russia's purges look soft hearted. And yet he hasn't.

In fact, apart from appear on TV and send the team out for his little black ops missions, he hasn't done much of anything except sit in his office. When she asked to bring the Sentry along she got something of a reaction. Bob? Really? Wasn't that a bit much? It's only one Hydra cell. Not even genuine Hydra, just a bunch of lawyers and scientists trying to cut and run while the rest of the country's still shifting through the rubble from the invasion. What if there was an actually emergency? Wasn't the Sentry more than a bit _much?_

She carefully, blandly explained that she wanted the Sentry. Very well. She got the Sentry. He didn't fight her on it. And that's worrying. You build your own little Illuminati on a foundation of people like Venom and Bullseye, you better be prepared to keep a tight grip and do anything _but_ sleep in your office. That just makes it all the easier for Karla to leap from middleman, or woman, or whatever the hell this new Ms Marvel thing is supposed to be, and steal it all. Leaving _her_ in charge of her own little Illuminati built on a foundation of people like Venom and Bullseye.

And she's good. But she's not insane.

Taking Reynolds's wasn't just to see if any fight was left in Osborn, it was to see if she could handle the power, the _idea_ of handling the power of something like the Sentry. Maybe see if she could find a reason to overthrow Osborn. Maybe find a reason why she's so scared of staying in the middle but too terrified to try for the top. Maybe see if she could find a reason why she's done any of this, this Moonstone, Meteorite, Ms Marvel super villainess, super heroine crap. None is forth coming.

So she's up here with something that makes the Manhattan project look like a dying firefly, in Carol Danver's stupid hand me downs and little fetish booties and a s_carf _of all things, as much a test for herself as for Osborn.

Finally her comm. link gives her the go sign and she comes to a decision. It's short term but it'll make her feel better.

"Bob."

"Yes?"

"Stay." she tells him, and rockets down towards the piddling little R and D facility.

They run around shouting in their silly jumpsuits and fire up their stupid robots. After five minutes the fire fight spills out into the street but in thirty minutes she's beaten them all. A H.A.M.M.E.R unit will pin down the rest and yank anyone important out of the shadows for interrogation back at the tower. Frankly, she doesn't care whether that's out of her control or not. She far more busy with the approaching crowd that reminds her exactly why she does this.

She throws her hair back, strikes the pose and smiles the smile. Almost exactly like the one Danver's used to flash but just a little naughtier. Go ahead boys and girls, I don't mind…

All eyes on her. It's manipulating _somebody_ after all.


	4. Romance With Norman

"I feel like we just jumped the shark on a very pedestrian sitcom."

Norman chuckled genuinely for the first time in what felt like years. Wait, scratch that, it had been years. Almost two since Cage and the Spider had sent him to jail in fact.

Thinking about the Spider made him feel less inclined to chuckle. Victoria seemed to sense this, and, ever eager to please, lent over and started to massage his shoulders.

"Sorry to be so inappropriate, Sir."

Norman forced a smile.

"My dear, after what we just did, I don't think we should be all that worried about 'inappropriate'."

They laughed.

"Incidentally you'll probably want a precautionary medical check, just in case. I'm not sure of the effectiveness of conventional contraceptives against metahuman fertilization."

Hand frowned, hesitating in the middle of massaging his back.

"Sir?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Why? If it's alright to ask, Sir. I mean," she continued as he turned in the candle light to face her ", I enjoy latex and riding crops and hot wax as much as the next girl. It's just I was expecting _you_ to use them on _me_."

Osborn seemed to consider this, his brow knotting as he tried to pound whatever it was into words. It was bizarre how much his actual face looked like a rubber mask.

"I just…you're a very beautiful woman Ms Hand, I want you to know that."

"Thank you, Sir."

"And I don't say that merely as miscellaneous praise, you understand. I knew a super model once…or at least I think I did…but you could certainly provide more than adequate competition for her, I assure you."

She smiled a little more genuinely, shifting her toes inside the thigh high boots.

"Thank you, Sir."

"And with that in mind, coupled with the fact you're one of the few people on the face of the Earth I feel I can genuinely trust, I just felt I should take the opportunity to feel more…" He trailed off, staring into the rust coloured edges of the candle light shadows.

"Human?" Hand suggested hesitantly.

He smiled.

"My dear, Hawkeye is human."

"Of course, Sir."

"I can't say for certain that after all this time, I'm better though." He thought about it again and shrugged. "Well. I am. But here I am, ten steps away from becoming president and apart this little soirée I haven't taken any real pleasure in…"

He stopped again, and the look in his eye when he looked into hers stopped the air in her throat.

"Are you happy where you are, Victoria?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You're not at all tempted to aim for anything beyond your station?"

"Not at present, Sir…"

"But you would most certainly describe yourself as ambitious?"

"I'd…like to think so, Sir…"

Silence. Then, in what had to be the first truly genuine sign of human emotion since his grandson had been born, Norman Osborn gently took her hand.

"Never try to rule the world, Ms Hand."

He sounded like he was about to burst into tears.

"No one should ever try to rule the world…"

The abandoned blackberry on the dresser erupted to life. With a lupine sound Osborn swiped it next to his ear with the speed of the purely furious.

"Yes." He said into it, the very model of professionalism. Silence while Hand let the sheets fall away from her, silently removing the elbow length gloves, eyes cat like and locked on him.

"Yes. Yes. Understood. Right. No, keep going on him for another hour. Keep Aries posted outside, let no one in but Ms Marvel. Then we'll show him the results. I don't care if Daken asks. If the results are remotely similar to what he brought in then he can learn all about it in the briefing tomorrow. Yes. Yes. I'll be down shortly."

He placed the blackberry back on the dresser and stood up while Hand pulled o her shirt.

"Get dressed, my dear. The world just became a lot more interesting."

And the Green Goblin chuckled as he blew out the candles.


	5. Assimilation With NohVah

Accessing SuitSkin bio banks: User Kree Legionnaire Optimaximi: Noh-Vah, Gestalt plexi third rank.

Current location: Unidentified dimension. 'Sol' system, 'Earth'. North of local equator, 33 mex above sea level. Locale designation: United States of America, New York City.

User Priority: Continued recon of local terrain for Empire class estate and materials. Survive for Empire. Observe recent terrainian alley group designated 'Avengers'. Find suitable entertainment to preserve sanity.

Med Journal: Enhancement Systems: optimal. Additional 'Nega Bands' equipment: above average increase. Suggest continued observation of additional equipment, although no apparent or recent negative effects. Senses 1 through 18: currently level 5, optimal under environmental condtions.165 klecks since last White Run.

Additional: Recording of upper atmospheric equipment belonging to recent allied terrainian 'Norman Osborn/Iron Patriot' focused on user. User chooses to take no action at this time.

Observation: Local life form entering general vicinity. Non hostile. Less than minimal threat.

"Um, excuse me?"

"Mm?"

"Are you Marvel Boy?"

"Captain Marvel. Yes."

"Like, oh my God, it's really you?"

"I don't understand if that's a question or not."

"You are so funny? I didn't know that superheroes could be so funny?"

"I feel the same way about your entire species."

"So, um, I'm Jenifer Ann."

"I didn't ask."

"And my mom used to date Simon Williams before he was Wonder Man? Do you know who Wonder Man is?"

Observation: Above average pheromone levels. 59 local units underweight. Brunette. Insufficient clothing for environmental temperature. 20/60 compatibility match with user. Child bearing hips.

"Your people are so dependant on metahumans to guide your society it's no surprise you haven't mastered off planet travel.

"You are, like, so funny?"

Observation: 4th priority potentially fulfilled.

"You mentioned dating."

"I did?"

"Practically screamed it."

Additional: priority signal belonging to current alley group designation 'Avengers'.

Additional: Disabled.

"Like, oh my God, really?! Oh you won't regret this? I'll show you a totally awesome time?"

Med Journal: Adjusting audio senses to compensate for terrainian subject 'Jenifer Ann's' increase in oral pitch. Slight alteration in user's pheromone matrix. New wave pattern reconfiguration complete. Increases around subject 'Jenifer Ann'. Repeating.

Additional: Maximum maximum priority signal belonging to current alley group designation 'Avengers'.

Additional: Disabled.

"Kor v'an noph' aso."

"Excuse me?"

"Kor v'an noph' aso."

"I didn't know superheroes spoke French?"

"That's the trigger phrase I'm implanting in your tiny little mind in my native tongue while I alter the air around you into a spliced field of hormones so tranquilizing you've acquired all the sentience and willpower of an 80 year old coma patient the entire time I've wasted talking to you."

"Oh? Cool?"

"Even though I know you won't remember or understand, and I don't really care if you do, this is not rape on my planet. It doesn't even fit into the definition on your planet. I'll give you what you think you want and you'll use the fact you slept with a superhero to upstage the rest of your herd, or whatever the hell you belong to, and I get to relieve the monotony of waiting for the chance to turn this planet into something resembling a civilisation."

"'Kay?"

"I'm not mating with you, and I'll even sterilise you if I have to, but I really need to do something to stimulate my nervous system other than devour cardboard and rewire it. Still, since I'm bored enough to do this, we're doing it on my terms. I'm going to remake you into something worthy of a Kree warrior."

"Cool?"

"You will eat for me."

"Yes?"

"You will grow muscle for me."

"Yes?"

"You will disinfect yourself of any and all your filthy Earth bacteria."

"Definitely?"

"Now…"

Error: disturbance in general proximity net.

"LIKE, OH MY GOD!?"

Observation: Potential breeding partner/pleasure tool leaving.

"Sorry to completely eradicate the moment, Romeo, I just couldn't stomach anymore."

Battle Net Assessment: Terrainian ally designation 'Daken/Wolverine' in immediate vicinity. Threat assessment:??? Error. Expanded radius should have resulted in more immediate detection. Reassessing…

"You just can't let anyone else have any fun, can you, animal?"

"Come on."

"What's happening?"

"Osborn sent the signal out an hour ago. Briefing time."


	6. Culture With Ares

Long ago before there was a long ago, Ares looked at himself and saw Mars, Ekchuah, Honos, Kālī, Monthu and the even more countless than the countless others of himself, and knew that he was all of them and none of them and that they were all of him and none of him. The stories after that are vast and many, but this was all so long ago that not even Aries really remembers. Not really.

Long after the last of the great kings fell, a new kind of hero that was everything and nothing like the heroes of then leapt forward into the now and shows just as much disinterest in stopping as the titans of the then. The superhero.

Ares flopped between hero and villain like the great crashing waves of the ocean that was before the world, hacking his way through his own mythology, intentionally or otherwise, and into this story that grew as old and as new as his own. He fought Thor and Hercules and countless others in all kinds of colour and darkness until this new story started to change shape. Aries, intrigued at this new legend that frothed and snapped like a thunderstorm, joined a new pantheon that grew out of the invasion of the stars.

Had he not been almost as lazy as he was bloodthirsty, Ares would have used this opportunity to truly shape the world around his story, for all stories come from the cities of the world's when it's people grow bored and curious. If there is anything more wonderful and dangerous to a god, it is the power of the stories that grow u around them. They can be worshiped or they can be despised. They can mocked or they can be praised. And if one day they become powerful enough to write their own stories…

But Ares was, as has been said, lazy, and made no real attempt to replace his father's intangible legacy with his very tangible axe. So it was that he came to be sitting in Stark Tower's rec room playing a fascinating game with the amusing title of Go Fish with two H.A.M.M.E.R agents, waiting for Norman Osborn to summon him to a briefing, when the man they'd been interrogating came screaming into the room, blood on his face and boot jets on his feet, and exploded his way through the bullet proof glass with a home-made acid hidden in a false tooth, flying away.

Well, Ares at once gave chase, leaping out the ruined window after him, the song of combat in his ears and the crunch of New York rooftops under his feet. If he heard the angry cries of Norman Osborn to abandon pursuit he paid it no heed.

His quarry fled through the skies and sometimes through the streets like a winged rodent, but Ares was the god of war for a reason, and while war is, to some, a foolish and bloody thing it is twice as foolish and fatally bloody to forget it is also about strategy. And to have a winning strategy, one must be both cunning and inventive.

Just ask Time Warner.

Or don't.

And so, using cunning and inventiveness and maybe just a little bloodiness, Ares caught his pray by counting not on his arms and his leaping to catch him, but on his axe to extend his grasp just that bit further. And it did, biting down into his prey's back, just where the rich meat under your spine is, and sent them both crashing down through the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. What a noise they made!

And when Ares stepped from the dust, the corpse of his victim in one hand and the bits still stuck on his axe in the other, he found himself in a room full of screaming people, fleeing the devastation he had brought with him. This was to be expected. What was not was the weeping man who sagged to his knees and howled like a sick coyote. Ares asked him what was wrong,a nd the man explained he was an artist who had just finished five years work on a masterpeice that was now little more than wreckage beneath the mighty god's boot heel.

Ares told him to rejoice, for now he was part of a grander story that wound into a tapestry that would reshape the world through a new and glorious age.

The artist promptly fainted.

Norman Osborn was very angry at Ares for what he had done, not least because it brought him much mockery on the daytime chat show circuit and cost him a lot of money to smooth over and replace the artist's work. So angry was he that he forbade Ares from performing on any missions for a whole month until he learned to obey orders. This was not much of a punishment to Aries, as it gave him more time to learn how to play Go Fish and think up new stories to tell his guard friends.

And that is _The Story Of Why Ares Is Not Allowed Out Of The Tower Anymore Except At Weekends_.

Or, as the DB put it: _**Earth's Mightiest (Reckless?) Heroes!**_


	7. Goal Setting With Norman

"History lesson, ladies and gentlemen." Osborn gestured to the hologram revolving from the conference table. "If I say the name Diego Garcia, who knows what I'm talking about?"

"Wasn't he that little Spanish guy who used to run the monkey knife fights in the Meat Packing District back in the Big Man days?"

"Nooo, Mac--try again."

"Part of the Chagos Archipelago, tied into the BIOT, entire population was forcibly removed in one of the largest acts of depopulation in human history to make way for all sorts of grotty little military bases."

Moonstone drummed her fingers off the arm rest, so bored she didn't even realise the slight tug of gravity as her fingers rose and fell.

"Full marks, my dear." Norman glided across the shadows of the conference room, eyes looming through the ocean as he highlighted a particular section of ocean. If the map hadn't zoomed in on it, none of them would have realised the smaller island was there. "But why do I get the feeling no one but me knows about St Christopher's here."

"Patron saint of travellers?"

"Very good, Mac. Also the cover name for the secret underwater testing facility S.H.I.E.L.D built there almost sixty years ago." Osborn tapped the image again and it split into twin holograms of the island, one covering a blue lattice of lines and data detailing corridors and bunkers in a rough circular shape. It had to be about the size of the pentagon. "Thanks to all your hard work, and despite Ares little rampage, we were able to cross-reference data we decrypted from a jump drive we confiscated from Hydra with information we…acquired from one of the college student A.I.M punks who helped the current owner purchase the facility for his own purposes without too much trouble."

"You talk way too friggin' much, Osborn." Bullseye muttered, coming up for air from his 6th can of beer, playing with the tab with his thumb.

"Get your feet of my table." Osborn said sweetly and snapped his fingers.

Information screamed along the smart walls and into the table. Links, aliases, photos, faces, cities, names. Venom growled as a Donald Trump wannabe glided up his white widow markings and across his face. Lines of text and multiple images finally became one final face and name. Well. Codename.

Bullseye took his feet of the desk from pure shock. Then cackled.

"_This _is gonna be fun."

"Heard about him." Daken nodded reflectively. "Low profile. Got to be worth a laugh though."

Noh-Vah frowned.

"Who or what is this, exactly?"

"If we do our job right? Anything and everything."

Moonstone met his eyes, nodding.

"So since you put Ares in the corner and everything, I'm guessing we just send in the Sentry and nuke the place before he becomes a threat to the cabal."

"Don't be an idiot, Dr. Sofen."

Karla blinked. The words had been cold, like the flames of a comet. That sounded like the old Osborn.

"This, my friends," Osborn continued, pronouncing the word 'friends' with the same tone normal people use the word 'cockroaches' ",is an opportunity. One that requires finesse. But just enough to show we mean business."

He smiled at the unstable William Tell wannabe across the table and his…well, pet.

"Hawkeye. Spider-Man. How bored are you two feeling right now?"


	8. Style With Mac

DARK AVENGERS: THE SCIENCE OF EVIL!

VOLUME 1, ISSUE 9

Page 1

Panel 1: Establishing shot of the New York City dock. A mysterious MAN IN A TRENCH COAT walks towards us, his face and most of his body in shadows from the docks and the fedora he's wearing. He's carrying a briefcase.

Panel 2: The DROWNING MAN, the local water front dive. The shadow of the MAN IN A TRENCH COAT falls across the door.

Page 2

Panel 1: MAN IN A TRENCH COAT opens the door, stepping into the room.

Panel 2: All eyes belonging to the bar's regular patrons glare at the MAN.

Panel 3: The MAN walks nervously up to the bar, where three TOUGH GUYS are talking to the BARTENDER.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT: Um, er, um, excuse me…

BARTENDER: Yer excused.

Panel 4: The MAN nervously slides in between the three TOUGH GUYS, all of whom are eyeing him suspiciously.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT: No, um, er, um, you see I'm looking for a place.

BARTENDER: Lotta guys come here lookin' fer somthin'. Usually trouble.

Panel 5: One of the three TOUGH GUYS, leans over, curious as the MAN IN A TRENCH COAT keeps speaking.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 1/3: Um, er, um, well the place I'm looking for--

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 2/3:--for my employer, you see--

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 3/3:--I believe it's called the Island With No Name?

Panel 6: The interested TOUGH GUY puts his large hand on the smaller MAN IN A TRENCH COAT's shoulder.

TOUGH GUY: That's a pretty tall order, friend.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT: Um, er, um, d-do you know of it?

Page 3

Panel 1: The TOUGH GUY looks at his smirking friends.

TOUGH GUY: Know of it? Why, we were practically raised on it!

Panel 2: The three TOUGH GUYS hustle the MAN IN A TRENCH COAT out of the bar, one of them taking his briefcase, the leader putting his large arm companionably around his shoulder.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT: Um, er, um, well if that is the case, could you perhaps tell me how to charter a boat, or--

TOUGH GUY 1/2: Now, now. No need for any of that. You can hitch a ride with us.

TOUGH GUY 2/2: I'm Rex by the way.

Panel 3: An alley behind the DROWNING MAN. REX and his TOUGH GUY friends drag the MAN IN A TRENCH COAT into it. One of the TOUGH GUYS plucks at the handle of the briefcase.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT: Um, er, um, really, none of this is necessary…

REX 1/2: Oh but we insist.

REX 2/2: After all, how stupid do you think we are?

Panel 4: Same shot. All three TOUGH GUYS hit buttons on their belts, REX turning his grip on the MAN IN A TRENCH COAT into a strangle hold. Rose coloured light flares around them.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT: What the--!?

SFX: TEK

Panel 5: Same shot, different background. Metallic warehouse like walls. Lots of shadows. The TOUGH GUYS shed their street clothes, revealing orange jumpsuits underneath, as REX shoves the MAN IN A TRENCH COAT into a corner.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT: Unghf!

REX: Now sit in the corner like a good little boy and listen to how the world works.

Page 4

Panel 1: The three TOUGH GUYS loom over the MAN IN A TRENCH COAT, REX pulling up his shirt to reveal a similar orange jumpsuit.

REX: See, maybe out there in the little paper world where people like you live, trench coats and fedoras and briefcases make you special.

Panel 2: Same shot. One of the TOUGH GUYS holds up the handle of the briefcase, broken off, as REX continues to gloat.

REX 1/3: But here, in the real world, paper is just paper. We work for the biggest and the meanest and to do that we have to be bigger and meaner than you.

REX 2/3: And if your mystery employer thinks we're dopey enough to think we'd be stupid enough not to recognise a rat with a transmitter in his briefcase, then he's not big and mean enough for our boss to care about.

REX 3/3: Doesn't mean we're not gonna drag you to our boss and work you over until you tell us who he is. Because that's what bigger, meaner people do.

Panel 3: Same shot. The MAN IN A TRENCH COAT doesn't react like REX and the TOUGH GUYS were expecting. Instead of cowering in fear, he LAUGHS/

SFX: AHAHAHA! HAHAHA! HAHAHA!

REX 1/2: What?

REX 1/2: What's so funny!?

Page 5

Panel 1: The MAN IN THE TRENCH COAT grins, all signs of timidness gone. His eyes are in deep shadow from the fedora.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 1/2: Oh everything. Nothing. You.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 2/2: First off, the transmitters in my false tooth, moron.

Panel 2: Space, above the planet EARTH. An AVENGER'S QUINJET hovers, waiting. A light on the consol starts to flicker.

CAPTION: You triggered it the second you teleported me here.

Panel 3: BULLSEYE sits at the controls of the jet, pulling down his HAWKEYE mask.

HAWKEYE: _Finally. _

Panel 4: The QUINJET blasts off towards the EARTH, following the transmission.

CAPTION: And second of all?

Panel 5: Same shot as the last one of the MAN IN A TRENCH COAT. The shadows seem to be growing deeper around him, leeching down his face.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 1/2: You, Rex.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT: 2/2: You're adorable.

Page 6

Panel 1: Shot of the TOUGH GUYS reaction. They cringe in revulsion and fear.

REX: (small text)What the hell…

Panel 2: Same shot as the last one of the MAN IN A TRENCH COAT. His teeth are sharper than humanly possible.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 1/2:I mean, listen to you.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 2/2:You think the world's a comic book.

Panel 3: Same shot. The MAN IN A TRENCH COAT looks up slightly. His eyes are growing huge and white under the fedora. The shadows seem to be reaching out to claim him as one of their own.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 1/2:Well it isn't. Rex. Not anymore.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 2/2:It's a horror movie.

Panel 4: Same shot. Nothing but the MAN IN A TRENCH COAT's eyes and smile gleaming out at us from the darkness.

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 1/2:And me?

MAN IN A TRENCH COAT 2/2:I'm best friends with the executive producer.

Panel 5: Nothing but shadows. The THING IN A TRENCH COAT has vanished.

Page 7

Panel 1: The three TOUGH GUYS, now utterly terrified, back up.

REX: What is this?! What the HELL is this?

Panel 2: Same shot. The THING's tail reaches out of the shadows, yanking the second TOUGH GUY up into the ceiling.

THING 1/2: Something like you could never scare somebody like me, Rex.

THING 2/2: The only way you ever could is the fact I used to be just another dumb thug, like you.

Panel 3 Same shot. The Thing's tail yanks the third TOUGH GUY up into the ceiling.

THING 1/2:But I'm not. Not anymore

THING 2/2:No more comic books for me. Not in the real world.

Panel 4: Same shot. REX, totally alone, looks up in terror as a shadow falls over him.

Page 8

Panel 1: Splash panel. VENOM dangles upside down out of the shadows over REX, all green drool and gnashing teeth and flailing tail.

VENOM: Because I'm bigger and meaner.

CAPTION: TO BE CONTINUED! NEXT ISSUE: THE HARD HITTING HAWKEYE!SEE YOU IN THIRY, TRUE BELIEVERS!


	9. Philosophy With Bullseye

You're gonna call me Bullseye. That's not an option. And contrary to popular belief? _I__'__m _the best there is at what I do. Say different and you'll die with something stupid in the back of your head, like a fountain pen or an egg whisk.

You were probably expecting some big, deep speech on who I am and how I cam to be. Well piss off. God don't love and all man, real man, does is kill. That's been true since your grandmother crawled outta the ocean and it's been true since I leapt out of a moving quinjet and assembled a bomb out of some cherry cola and nitro-glycerine in mid air. Screw MacGyver.

Screw Gargan too. I don't care if he was still in there when the bomb hit, I just hope he didn't eat every body to death before I land.

A bunch of idiots in jumpsuits pile out of the burning buildings like little ants as I ditch my chute. Some idiot comes at me with a broadsword like it's gonna save him. Him and his broadswords. I'm gonna have to have a talk with him about that. I duck the little moron and stab him in the nape of the neck with an arrow, then hit the two closest chumps with acid arrows before they can think. Lathe, rinse, repeat for the rest of the crowd.

I come out of a crowd of dead guys to the centre of the island. The little fake airstrip S.H.I.E.L.D set up so nobody got suspicious. I can see Gargan about twenty miles away eating his way through about sixty guys. Greedy bastard. At least I only really killed the most useless of these little henchmen wannabes. Just like Osborn said.

In a perfect world the target woulda gotten outta here long ago on the underwater escape hatch stuff in the complex under us, but I made sure the bomb went deep enough to take that out when it blew. Now he's gotta…yeah, there he is, running for the little chopper he's got set up for a quick getaway. He's no pansy but he works best low profile. I can respect that. He's got serious game though, he must hate having to do this. He's back in the cape too, oh God. He's really gonna hate this.

Never make any mistakes boys and girls: this ain't a perfect world. Not unless your meaner than the other guy. Not even because it's fun. Just because.

I shoot multiple arrows into his right leg 'till it's almost mush. Almost. He'll walk in about a year with good therapy and Osborn needs him alive. And maybe I really do need some competition if all this hero shit hit's the fan. Heroes don't kill villains, but at least pros respect each other enough to play the game properly.

He looks up at me as he drops like a squashed puppy dog.

"I'm not gonna say some crap like nothing personal, because we both know that means 'I hate your guts and I'd do this for free' but really, I'm being paid to do this. And we both know there's no way you'd let me drag you to the big boss peacefully. But when your leg gets better, look me up. I'll buy ya a beer."

Hey. Just because I'm a bad ass don't mean I can't be polite. Especially not to a pro like the Taskmaster.


	10. Science With Norman

"Come in, come in! Do sit down!"

The Taskmaster glowered at Norman Osborn as he was dragged into the room by a heavily armed H.A.M.M.E.R escort. His Stark Tech crutch chinked of the floor in protest as he was forced into the seat in front of Osborn. He glowered at the man, at Victoria Hand behind him, then at the steak frite on his plate. But then again his face was built for glowering.

"Have something to eat, won't you?"

Taskmaster stopped glowering at his cutlery. If not for the size of the H.A.M.M.E.R agents guns, it would have been in Osborn's forehead.

"From your table? Do you think I'm stupid or something? I thought I was done with all this Thunderbolt crap anyway. Hell, I'd figure I was pretty below your radar now hat you've conquered the world."

Osborn threw back his head and laughed so long he nearly asphyxiated.

"No, no, my friend…" He hesitated. "Well, you're not my friend are you? Anyway. Conquered the world."

He almost laughed again, but strangled it for his own protection.

"No. That's a good one, but no. Quite the opposite actually. You'll find it's the world that's conquered me."

He picked up his wine glass like Sisyphus lifting his rock for another round.

"I want you to think about this. Taking over the world, what you've always wanted to do, and not having a single idea what to do with it. Realising that, without good, you, the penultimate evil, are really just another executive who can make explosives and actually proves all those stupid internet conspiracy theorists right."

He swirled the contents around, watching them slap against the sides, silent and hypnotic, like a perfect waste of blood.

"Realising that you've taken over the world and it's the last thing you actually wanted to do."

He took a long drink, then came up for air with a silent, bitter gasp.

"Can you imagine anything more depressing?"

"My heart bleeds." the Taskmaster said stiffly.

Osborn's smile returned. "Careful now."

"Sorry, but I did have a lot invested in that place. Finding top quality training facilities is _hard_."

"Tell me about it." Osborn broke a piece of bread, deposited most of it on his plate and squashed the small remaining piece between finger and thumb. "We are, of course, prepared to fully reimburse you."

"And why is that exactly?"

"It's part of this ingenious little scheme I thought up ten seconds after I shot the Skull Queen in the head and saved the world."

Osborn stopped playing with the pulp, but didn't put it down.

"You'll find the worst kind of super villain is a lethargic one. Having nothing to do just leaves the Oedipus complex or whatever else is driving you time to simmer. When the opportunity to do something nasty comes along, you find yourself taking vindictive satisfaction in returning library books a day late and deliberately double parking. When you get the chance to show off your powers and have some honest to God _fun_," the pulp silently exploded between his frozen fingers, then shrank under them as he released the pressure as though terrified of him. ",you flat out eradicate whatever it is your doing and don't plan for tomorrow. And that's just me."

He nodded past the guards and out into the hall.

"Do you really want to think what a bored Venom, Wolverine and Bullseye are capable of?"

"Point taken."

"I thought so." Osborn slowly resumed worrying the bread. "To be honest I have quite a long list of people for my Avengers and the Hood's mob to take care of, but that's _work _and there's months between each mission. Everything's too damn quite. An alien invasion tends to suck the life out of things for a bit, and since practically every major criminal organization is under my control…well, there's no one to play with really. Oh the heroes will always be there, but at this stage my people can't just take off with them like they used too. Not without making people ask some very potentially damaging questions."

Taskmaster considered this.

"You spent too long building your powerbase to start knocking bricks loose, but you're saying you only want to keep it if you get to keep killing somebody now and then?"

Osborn's grin almost glowed bright green in the evening light.

"A man after my own heart."

"I don't wanna _know _what's running through your heart, Osborn."

Another almost laughing attack.

"As I said. Full compensation for the island. Hell, name the place, we can probably set you up. We could have you living in the Vatican if we wanted. And being connected to us gives you an in to just about everybody who needs evil henchmen or high calibre assassins, mafia, the triads, the Hellfire Club. They come to us, we give them you and your students. And all those low tier thugs who used to hand over 60% to Wilson Fisk are looking for work, to say nothing of all the people looking to be the next Bullseye now that he's gone off the grid. We give you all this, you give us someone to fight every few days."

The bread was almost less than paper under his excited hands. An eyebrow rose under the skull face plate.

"You saying what I think you're saying?"

"I'm saying I want you to make super villains for us."

Osborn smiled.

"What we do, what we've done for years, is a science. You really think they'd have let Captain America run around with his thunder gods and mutants if they didn't have bigger problems than the Nazis? We practically made him and all his little friends what they are." He scoffed. "If I never dropped Gwen Stacy off that bridge, who the hell is Spider-Man? Just another late night act on cable TV. Us plus them equals…well, I hardly have to tell you that. But now there's only us. And it's so goddamn _boring._"

He finally, almost reverently, put what little was left of the bread down.

"So! Do I have Ms Hand write up a schedule for you after you get a brand new leg and your own school in Vegas, or do I just have Ares sit on you and pay the Rhino your pension fund to let us kick him in the shins every weekend?"

Silence stretched out across the table. The silence of a man who knew he'd won. Maybe something human in the Taskmaster tried to fight it. But where was the room for humanity in a world where the planet's fifth greatest madman made perfect sense.

"There's this thing." the Taskmaster said slowly. "It's called e-mail."

"That was just what we did to get your attention. Imagine what we'll do if you don't _pay_ attention."

The Taskmaster sighed and picked up a fork.

"My mother always said gift horses were for riding."

"Wise woman." the Green Goblin said. And grinned.

It was going to be a good day.


End file.
